


malice in wonderland

by spikeface



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: Mirror Universe
Genre: Academy Era, M/M, Mirror Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 09:09:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12129183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikeface/pseuds/spikeface
Summary: Scotty is irritated after Kirk goes after one of his toys, so he decides to hunt down one of Kirk's.





	malice in wonderland

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while ago for my delightful beta, who had a weakness for Scotty. Found it while I was going through old files and figured it might as well see the light of internet.

They grab him in the lab, punch him in the diaphragm, and have a blindfold around his face before he can think. He fights them as they drag him out, down a hall, down another hall, tumble him into the lift and then out again, but they just hold tighter. By the time he hears a door open and they finally stop he’s panting with the effort of resisting them, his heart thumping in his chest.

They rip the blindfold off before they throw him to the floor, and as he goes hard to his knees McCoy sees a long face and a small dog. His stomach twists as he falls.

Everyone in the Empire and beyond has heard of Jonathan Archer but few, McCoy guesses, have gotten to inspect his boots up close and personal. They’re standard issue but no less intimidating for it, shiny black and filled to the brim with muscle.

They shift, and McCoy looks up. Archer is peering down at him.

“You can go,” he says, and for one crazy moment McCoy thinks Archer’s talking to him. Then he hears the guards behind him, the same ones who dragged him out of his lab and threw him down here, wherever the hell this is, clack their own boots together as they salute. They clatter off as noisily as they came and McCoy kicks himself again for letting himself be caught off guard like that. Not that it matters -- if Archer wants to see you, you’re going to be seen.

Archer turns and heads for a chair on one side of the dank room, his beagle trotting alongside him. He sits like it’s a goddamn throne, the dog settling down in sync. “You’re Cadet Kirk’s friend.”

That makes this a little familiar: McCoy can’t count how many times fellow cadets and even superior officers have snarled out their frustration with Kirk at him, held in check only by their fear of Pike. By now McCoy has deflection down to an art form, but he’s never had to deal with anyone this high up before.

He stands cautiously, dusts his pants off. “I wouldn’t say we’re friends, sir.” 

“I bet you wouldn’t. Back on your knees.”

McCoy has to literally bite his tongue as he sinks back down. The floor is hard and cold and vaguely moist. The guards couldn’t have taken him far; he doesn’t think they even took him outside, which means he’s still somewhere in the medical building, locked up with one of the Empire’s most feared admirals.

Fuck.

“I can see why he likes you.” He pets the dog at his side with what looks like affection. McCoy isn’t fooled.

“And what do you want with me? Sir.” He doesn’t remember Kirk doing anything that would piss off an admiral, even with their notoriously fragile egos. It makes sense to be courteous.

“I don’t want anything from you.” Archer looks him up and down dismissively. “You’re a gift.”

McCoy’s fists tighten at the last word. He did this whole song and dance already, practically as soon as he stepped off the damn shuttle, and the thought of being... gifted to anyone else is unexpected and infuriating.

If that’s even what Archer means. For all he knows the gift is his pained screams. He’s relatively certain that Archer won’t kill him outright -- he’s seen enough murders to know the higher ups tend to make those kinds of lessons public. But he’s also treated enough victims of a superior’s irritation to know that murder might be preferable.

God _damn_ Kirk.

He jumps as the door opens. “This’d better be bloody important, John. Those cores won’t --”

The accent makes McCoy’s heartbeat double, and the ragged scar along the newcomer’s neck confirms his fear. At least now McCoy can put a face to the notorious name; McCoy only knows Scott by reputation. He’s brilliant, cruel, and friendly -- Engineering’s answer to Jim Kirk. Kirk knows him, complains about him often enough and toasts to him more, but McCoy has never met him.

And generally, if Kirk knows someone and makes sure McCoy doesn’t, there’s a reason.

“You got him.” Scott beams, his face going round and wrinkled under the force of his grin. It’s surprisingly childlike, like McCoy is a puppy Archer brought home.

“I did.”

“I thought Jim had the lockdown on him.”

“Not in the labs, he doesn’t.” Archer is a changed man with Scott there, all but licking his chops, watching Scott like he wants to eat him alive.

McCoy thought he’d had a handle on the higher ups and their favorites. Pike is Kirk’s superior and never lets Kirk forget it, but he could have been Kirk’s father in another life, his brother in yet another one, and their bickering falls somewhere between what they are and what they wish they were. McCoy figures the odd blowjob works its way in, courtesy of Kirk’s annoyingly pretty mouth and Pike’s addiction to power trips, but even at the very beginning, when he’d been smarting from Kirk’s attentions and scared shitless at the thought of Pike’s, Pike and Kirk had been reassuringly familial. It had seemed normal for them to be like that, even natural.

Looking at Scott and Archer, McCoy realizes that Pike and Kirk are probably the exception, not the rule.

Scott surveys the room as if he’s only just noticed. “Christ, John. Not exactly a reservation on Risa, is it?”

“All that sunshine would ruin you.” Archer stares like he can see straight through Scott’s clothes. “This is close by, sound proofed, and the drains will mean less clean up.”

McCoy can’t help a swallow at that, all his nerve going giddy at hearing it put so bluntly. Only an idiot expects to get out of the Academy unscathed, but McCoy has grown used to thinking that Kirk and Pike are the worst he has to put up with -- one of the few upsides to suffering their perversions. 

It’s not fucking fair, even for Starfleet. Even worse is that he knows there’s not a goddamn thing he can do about it; he’s outranked, outnumbered, unarmed and so bad at hand to hand even Kirk takes pity on him.

Scott says: “Och, you make it sound like I want to hurt him.”

He smiles at McCoy.

McCoy knows a Starfleet smile means less than nothing. Scott could call him a long lost brother and it would still mean nothing. He knows why that smile is still tempting, courtesy of Interrogation 101, and how stupid it is for him to cling to it. He’s got a degree in psychology, for crying out loud. 

But none of that stops the glimmer of hope.

“Don’t you?” Archer steals his words.

“Pretty thing like him? I can think of much better ways to pass the time.” He waggles his eyebrows ridiculously. McCoy grunts. Being fucked by Engineering’s prized killer isn’t high on his to do list, but it’s immensely preferable to bleeding on a cold floor. If he gets out of this with just some soreness and a bit more nightmare fodder he’ll count himself a goddamn lucky man.

Scotty could still rip him up after he fucks him. Might even get off on making him believe he won’t.

One step at a time.

“I’m open to suggestions,” he bites out.

“And here Jimmy told me you weren’t good at making new friends.” He gives McCoy a leering up and down that makes his knuckles itch. Kirk smiles at him like that all the time, only with more knowing. “Not very polite of him to hold out on me like this is it, John?”

There’s a half-smile tilting Archer’s face. “No, indeed.”

“What say we get to know him better then?”

McCoy licks dry lips. He knows what’s coming, hates waiting for it almost as much as he hates being ordered into it. He reaches for his shirt, pauses as Scott shakes his head minutely, smile playing around his lips. His eyes dart down, and McCoy sighs and reaches for his belt. Scott doesn’t say anything so McCoy just shucks his pants altogether, would rather that than be forced or ordered out of them.

“That’s a good lad.” Scott guides him until he’s on his back, Archer directly behind him. He doesn’t like that, being unable to see the most powerful man in the room, but then Scott touches him, and it’s all he can focus on. Scott’s hands are warm, his skin thickly calloused even for an engineer. McCoy wonders if it’s true, that back home Scott liked to butcher his enemies with an authentic highland broadsword. He has the muscle for it, round and dense under the cadet reds. 

He runs those calloused hands gently up McCoy’s thighs, draws an exploratory thumb under McCoy’s cock. His touch is sure but not painful, unnerving after Kirk and Pike’s bruising hands. He tilts McCoy’s head back slowly, pausing there to warn McCoy to stay there before disappearing out of McCoy’s line of sight. McCoy watches something fly over his body into Scott’s hand, hears the squelch and realizes it must be lube. The cold brush at his hole a few seconds later is confirmation. His jaw clenches as Scott pushes a finger into him, but he’s going slowly. 

Kirk likes to finger fuck him fast and rough, has him trained enough by now that even that winds him up. This new variant, slow and quiet, is strange, unnerving in that he can’t even see either of the men in the room. Kirk loves to watch, needs to be watched, and Pike is a consummate voyeur.

“So what did Kirk do?” he asks, rather than think about that and listen to the slick noises of this man’s finger up his ass.

“He took a few of my toys.” He hears the familiar thwack of hand on flesh, realizes that Scott is jerking himself off. It’s doubled behind him, and tilting his head back slightly he can see Archer doing the same, eyes trained on Scott. It’s bizarre, being splayed open the way he is with no one’s eyes on him. Disconcerting on a deeper level than being ass-naked on a cold floor, a rough finger pushing him open. Kirk is always on top of him when he does this, pressing down while he presses in.

“Did he --” McCoy grunts, breath hitching uncomfortably as a second finger joins and twists inside him. “Did he break any?”

Scott brushes teasingly against his prostate, over and over until McCoy’s hips jerk. “Just took them for a ride.”

“Oh joy.” It should be comforting but mostly it’s just humiliating, that Kirk’s ride means his ass gets dragged into some sort of twisted floorshow. If that’s what this is. It feels different, not anything like the punishment fucks every cadet becomes accidental audience to at one point or another. Those are brutal and public, and this...

Scott is chuckling, low and easy, as he pulls his fingers out. “On your knees now, that’s it.”

McCoy obeys, tries to be comforted that Scott doesn’t want to pant into his face while he fucks him. Scott shuffles him over when he’s done, pulls him up gently with fingers twisted in his hair, until he’s facing Archer. Then it’s an appreciative slap to his right cheek before it’s pulled aside, a thick cock pushing into him. It’s nothing new, thicker maybe but not so long as Kirk’s, presses inside him in similar ways. It doesn’t hurt too much and it could be much worse and really McCoy ought to be counting his lucky stars given who these men are, but he’s on his knees with a cock up his ass while an admiral jerks off on it and all he really wants to do is vomit. The soothing pat to the small of his back makes it worse, the same kind Archer gave to his dog earlier.

Scott goes slow, rhythm easy, his hands holding rather than gripping maniacally the way Kirk’s do. He doesn’t get off on his pain like Pike and he doesn’t spew a constant stream of humiliation like Kirk. McCoy glances up, watches Archer’s dark eyes focus hard behind him, and guesses that Scott isn’t looking at him either. He doesn’t want their attention but he might hate this more, being naked and invaded and ignored.

Scott’s hand reaches around, jerks him off with relentless precision. He speeds up as McCoy stretches, adapts, until every thrust is a fluid rub against his hot spot and every jerk of his hand spreads more pre-cum along his dick. McCoy stares at the floor, curls his hands into fists and closes his eyes tight, bites on his lip so he doesn’t whimper when he comes.

It’s easier after that, to focus on regaining his breath as Scott thrusts it out of him. They’re nothing to him as long as he can focus on the floor, his own harsh breathing drowning out theirs.

But that only works until his heart slows, until they both come. Then Scott lets him go, gaping and dripping and covered in sweat. He sits down, rubs his hands through his hair until he hears an obscene pop. Scott is licking his fingers, slurping McCoy’s come off of them while watching Archer with heavy-lidded eyes. Archer’s own come-covered hand lies limp at his side, his pants still open and his chest heaving, like he was the one who was fucked.

McCoy doesn’t want to think about that, doesn’t want to watch these two get off on each other with him in the middle any more.

The door rattles.

There are curses, the hiss of a phaser, and then it opens. Kirk’s hair is lit from the back, glowing deceptively around his head. McCoy breathes a laugh, feeling exhaustion creep up on him.

“Jimmy!” Scott grins again, the same smile he’d directed at McCoy. McCoy shudders.

“Scotty!” Kirk returns, smiling with all his teeth. “McCoy, get dressed.”

“No reason to get worked up now, we were just having a bit of fun.” The last is delivered in an American accent. Kirk huffs a laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

“Pants, McCoy,” Kirk orders, still looking at Scott.

McCoy clothes himself mechanically. He’s had worse fucks, much worse, but for some reason it’s still hard. He feels disoriented, out of place. It’s easier when Kirk just grabs him, drags him out of the room with a casual salute in Archer’s direction. “Admiral.”

He wants to work up a froth on the way to Kirk’s rooms, about Scott and Kirk’s habits of stealing his toys. Instead he just follows where Kirk leads, stares at the back of his head. Kirk marches ahead like he’s leading a troop instead of a tired old man who reeks of another man’s come. He doesn’t look back once.

Kirk locks the door behind him when they arrive, adds the deadbolts he had installed instead of just the usual computer lock. Then he drags McCoy into the bathroom, pulls his clothes off practically at the same time as his own, and shoves him into the shower.

McCoy jumps when it’s water that hits him rather than vibrations, but he’s never been fond of sonics and water is what he wants right now. It’s hot and heavy, rushes the sweat and lube and sticky come off of him, swirling into the drain. McCoy drops his head, lets his hair soak in it, doesn’t try to fight when Kirk backs him into the wall. He grunts when Kirk bites him, right at the junction of neck and shoulder, hisses when Kirk doesn’t let go, but doesn’t try to push him away. Kirk draws away on his own time, licks the tooth marks McCoy knows will linger and presses in closer. He grips McCoy’s arm hard enough to bruise with one hand, pants hot onto his shoulder and wraps his other hand around McCoy’s dick, slick with water and maybe shower gel. He’s muttering something, tense and indistinguishable under the murmur of the shower.

McCoy has never been relieved to have Kirk’s hands on him, and even after all that now is no exception. He’s sore and raw and tired and resentful, wants to sleep and punch something at the same time. But he gave up denying Kirk a long time ago, and he’s tired enough to give up pretending he doesn’t want what he wants, so he tilts Kirk’s chin up until Kirk looks at him. Kirk’s breath catches just once, grip tightening hard enough that McCoy winces as Kirk presses in for a kiss. They keep their eyes open; Kirk’s are dark, inhuman blue irises swallowed by his pupils.

He comes then, breathing into Kirk’s mouth, watching Kirk watch him, barely blinking even as the water runs into his lashes.


End file.
